


Unbreaking the Circle

by FactorialRabbits



Series: Unbreakable Bonds [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Relationships, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Families of Choice, Family, Fourth Age, Implied/Referenced Sex, Referenced Polyamory, Suicidal Thoughts, Unconventional Families, Valinor, also featuring an ensemble cast of Elrond's friends and relatives, fic-fix of fanfic, now featuring even more of the Valar, now with more sufficient comfort, updated tags for epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: The House of Fëanor is broken, scattered and spread across Arda and beyond. Elrond cannot fix everything, but breaking someone out of Mandos? His family have a precedent for doing that.OrMaglor makes a terrible suggestion that even Fingon the Valiant failed to succeed at. Elrond tries anyway.





	1. In Which We Master Our Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpaceWall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Which We Were Broken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757248) by [SpaceWall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall). 



> There are many characters and the tagging got silly so I just focused on the main ones. Same goes for relationships - the romantic and sexual ones are not the point, but even to list all the important platonic ones would take forever. So I listed the two that are the point of the fic.
> 
> Content warnings: References to suicide and mental illness and discussion thereof, mention of alcohol
> 
> Yes, I was supposed to be updating Lines. But SpaceWall wrote something awful and (quite rightly) blamed it on me. So this is my attempt to fix it and deal with those feels.
> 
> I tried to make this work as stand alone, but I would genuinely suggest you go read the fic in inspired by first - its much shorter than this, probably better, and depressingly adorable. And also provides context on why the other Feanorians are alive but not about, and a few other things. I think what is mostly relevant is that Elrond has adopted Feanor as his grandfather, Maglor is still wandering the shores of Middle Earth, most of the Feanorians have been reborn but are effectively under constant supervision and house arrest and banned from talking to each other, and Maedhros has not been reborn for the sole reason that he committed suicide and this is the most crime crime according to the Valar. Elrond and Feanor are very upset about this.
> 
> I have also used this to just throw some of my favourite headcanons and canon twistings at a wall and see what got referenced.

It starts, as things often do, with a knock at Elrond's front door. He is just preparing to turn in for the night when it comes. At first he thinks it an imagination - the knock is soft, barely present, and he is not expecting guests. But then Celebrian pokes her head around the bathroom door, asking if he is expecting anyone tonight, and he knows it was not imagined. Between them they can only imagine that either Gil-Galad has returned from Tirion early, and forgotten his keys, or something truly awful has happened. When another, firmer knock sounds, they both hurry downstairs.

In the end, neither is true. Elrond pulls open the door to find a lone figure on his doorstep, tightly clutching a piece of parchment. His cloak was weary and torn, but pulled tightly around him, covering everything but the very pale and almost skeletal hand.

"I have been instructed to report to and turn myself into the care of one Ereinion, Former High King of the Noldor and Foster-Son of Finrod Felagund. I am told this is his house?"

The voice is quiet and torn, but undoubtedly familiar. Hearing the voice that had formed such an important part of his childhood made Elrond start - he had not heard of any boats arriving of late. Indeed, the last had been a surprise contingent of elves from Mirkwood, their King among them, nearly eight months prior. So what Maglor is doing in Valinor he does not know. There are, however, very few things which could have cheered him nearly so much. He had... When he had heard what Manwe had declared, when he had seen what had become of everyone else, he had not dared hope Maglor would ever return. Yet, he is here. Standing on Elrond's doorstep, shivering from cold or anticipation, assigned to the keeping of one of Elrond's partners. It takes him a moment to get his thoughts under control.

"Gil-Galad is currently on business in Tirion," is what Elrond eventually says, voice quieter than he intends. "He is due back in a few days; we would be more than happy to host you until then, atto."

It is at the last word that Maglor finally looks up, making eye contact with him. The recognition is instant, as Maglor puts his hand to his mouth and whispers Elrond's name.

Elrond gives him a genuine smile, then wraps his arms around his missing father - one whom he never expected to return.

"I will go put the kettle on," Celebrian takes the parchment from Maglor's hand, reading it and making mental notes as she walks towards the kitchen. Even all these years later she limps ever so slightly, though she holds herself with as much pride as her mother.

After a short while, Elrond leads Maglor through to the sitting room. There, they sit together and talk about Elrond's life in Aman, how Maglor accidentally found himself recruited to assist the sailors of the Mirkwood elves seeking the West, and the trial and debates of the Valar which inevitably followed. Elrond has no doubt that Thranduil knew exactly what was going on, even if Maglor did not. He is concerned about what sort of favour will be expected of him this time, but knows that nothing he could be asked for would ever even come near the cost of having his father back.

Maglor is fragile, both mentally and physically, and achingly tired. He is introduced to Celebrian, and told of the currently travelling members of their household, before being guided upstairs and put up in one of the guest bedrooms. A guest bedroom which just happens to contain an ancient silver harp Elrond has carried for many a long age, and is decorated exactly to Maglor's former tastes. Come morning, Elrond is genuinely surprised to see him still there, earning him a small yet honest laugh and a promise that he will stay at least until his jailer returns.

It is three days before he asks why he has heard news of all his brothers but Maedhros.

* * *

A few months later, Maglor is visiting Fëanor with supervision from Finarfin. Elrond is out, tending to the gardens, when he notices a presence beside him. He turns to see Thranduil leaning against his gate, studying him closely. It is the first he has seen of Thranduil upon these shores; he seems more at peace, and yet also misplaced. Or maybe the misplacement is simply due to the fact that Elrond's home is distinctly lacking eleven foot trees.

"Thranduil! It is always a pleasure. Would you like me to get you some tea?" Elrond smiles over to his... His something. There was little point in offering the tea, given Thranduil was carrying his own, open bottle of wine. Open and half empty bottle of wine. How he managed to remain functional must be a special sub-law of reality.

"Did Maglor manage to make it to you? I almost felt bad about abandoning him with Eonwe."

So Thranduil was getting straight to the point. Elrond could keep to the point as well. "Yes. He showed up on my doorstep a few months after you arrived."

"Good, good," Thranduil nodded to himself slowly. "That is whole set of them, then. Father would be furious if he paid enough attention."

"No," Elrond sighs. This was not a conversation he had wanted to have with Thranduil. They know each other too well to be impartial, but not well enough to be friends.

"Really?" Thranduil seems honestly surprised. "I had heard Fëanor was back, and had assumed...?"

"They will not release Maedhros - everyone else is out and being supervised somewhere in Valinor."

"Maedhros? I would have thought Celegorm. You always seemed fond of him, and I have come to find you not a terrible judge of character."

Elrond just about manages to restrain the urge to throw his gardening shears at the hedgerow, "apparently, being so unwell you kill yourself gets you eternally damned to solitary confinement in the depths of Mandos. Something literally no other crime will achieve."

Thranduil chokes on the mouthful of wine he has just taken, and stares, "you are messing with me."

Elrond shakes his head in return, and begins to cry. He closes his eyes to try force it away. 

It is genuinely a surprise to find Thranduil's arms, heavy with a thousand layers of silken robes, pull him into a tight, almost protective hug. It is undeniably awkward, and the end result is Elrond bursting into a fit of giggles - what a pair they must make.

"I feel like I should be offended," Thranduil tuts as Elrond pulls away. "But I suppose laugher means you will have wiped that awful expression from your face, at least."

"Thank you," Elrond smiles, noting the discarded bottle of wine spilling onto the floor. "For that, for bringing my atto back, for everything. Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

"Do not worry," Thranduil makes a dismissive gesture. "I have no need of your belongings."

"Not even a new bottle of wine?" Elrond's voice becomes slightly teasing as he looks at it.

Thranduil, noticing it, ruffles his robes much like a chicken ruffles its feathers. The overall effect looks somewhat similar, "well, I suppose if you have anything decent in."

"I cannot promise you decent," Elrond warns. "But I can offer strong and unusual?"

"It will suffice... Did I tell you about our new settlement? We are still introducing ourselves to the local wildlife, but it is a work in progress. You really should visit sometime."

"I will just as soon as I have some free time."

"Ah, yes, I imagine all that interesting sex you are inevitably now having is very consuming of your time. And why are you abusing this poor hedge?" Thranduil, despite his words, is grinning in amusement as they settle into a far more familiar and comfortable conversation.

* * *

A few weeks later, Elrond's mind is still consumed by thoughts of Maedhros. And the descriptions from the other Fëanorians of the torture they suffered in the care of Namo - utter darkness and isolation and silence. Complete sensory deprivation. A practice he had thought limited to the servants of Melkor. But apparently not.

Still, it is time for his monthly visit to Fëanor's home, and he is determined not to let it overshadow whatever chaos has been planned. The visits have become something of a tradition over the long years since their first meeting. Letting themselves in, as Fëanor has insisted Elrond does, they hear the sound of conversation from the kitchen. So, Elrond's party settles themselves into the lounge, and talk to one another until their host is ready for them. The party that arrives consists of Elrond, his wife Celebrian, Gil-Galad - their partner, Celebrimbor - Gil-Galad's husband, Elladan, Elrohir and Maglor.

He cannot help but notice that there are seven of them. Just add Fëanor and whomever he is talking to in the kitchen, and you have the number of people this house was designed for.

When Fëanor eventually notices them, he comes through. Fingon follows a short way behind, smiling wanely at the group and leaning on the door through to the kitchen. Elrond thinks he looks tired, but then... It's fairly obvious as to why. His attention is distracted by Maglor throwing himself at Fëanor, the two locked in a tight embrace. It is desperate, as though they do not quite believe the other is real and present and there to stay. But then, that is to be expected; it would do them both a lot of good if they could see each other whenever they wished, but the Valar's rules are too restrictive for that.

It is another fight he needs to have; how on earth the Valar expect the family to heal whilst unable to communicate freely and privately with their loved ones is beyond him. Nearly as far beyond him as how or who imprisoning Maedhros is supposed to help. He... He is heartbroken by it, but also furious. But, no, try not to think of that - they are here to enjoy themselves.

Once Maglor is released, Fëanor moves around the room, giving each of his guests either a hug or a handshake. Celebrimbor came last, allowing for a longer hug. Somewhere within the greetings, Fingon had slipped away.

They talk, updating Fëanor on their lives and happenings outside his walls for some time, until Fingon appears with food. He and Fëanor eye each other, but no objections are made. Only once Fingon has joined them, sat between the twins to his soon to be horror, does dinner begin.

If there is one thing to be said for the House of Finwë's cooking, it is that it is always excellent.

It is Elrohir who offers to clean up, Gil-Galad and Fingon assisting. Celebrian has grown tired, having never completely recovered from her injuries. She does not sleep, but curls up on one of the sofas, watching her family play charades as they wait for the clearing away to be done. She laughs along, draped in Elrond's cloak as well as her own. Elrond cannot help but keep checking on her - he thinks he is being subtle, but her eye rolls tell him otherwise. He hates this game, but hearing Maglor honestly, genuinely laugh at Elladan's performances is worth the mild humilitation. It is worth almost anything.

When the cleaners reappear, the games continue for a short while. But, eventually, the group end up on the floor. Elrond is glad for the games, no matter how much he despises them; everyone, even Fëanor, even Fingon, is now laughing at least a little.

But then Fingon sighs, "I... Should be leaving soon, and did not wish to ruin the mood, but I was wondering if I could discuss something serious?"

Elrond thinks it is a great shame that, for all his bright clothing and gold in his hair, Fingon struggles to smile. They are something approaching friends, bound in their sorrow, but each is a reminder of that sorrow to the other. He is a far cry from the beautiful and valiant and bright king from Maglor's tales, or even the histories, but Elrond supposes that is what the eternal damnation of your one and only love does to you. Celebrian leaving for Valinor, where he knew they would meet again, was hard enough for Elrond to bear. How Fingon still worked and managed even an approximation of a smile was beyond his understanding.

"This is about Nelyafinwë, is it not?" Fëanor is the one to ask, face once more serious as he sits in his great chair.

Fingon nods, "I am going to petition Manwe again. In three days. We do not expect to be successful, but if you want to submit any evidence to them..."

It happens fairly regularly; Elrond has already provided all the expertise he has to offer. Sometimes he has gone with them, other times he has not. Fëanor and his sons are not permitted to call upon the Valar, but Nerdanel and Fingon lead the efforts. Earendil is their most common and loudest supporter, to many's surprise. Elrond can only assume he feels guilty about Maedhros raising his children.

Celebrian offers to come with them, and offer her experiences of being surrounded by enemies with no hope of escape, to be subjected to the horrors of the enemy. About how it changes and warps you. Celebrimbor reaches for Gil-Galad's comfort when she begins to detail the more graphic eventss of her torture. Realising what she has done, she apologises profusely. He smiles somewhat unconvincingly, but waves her apologies off.

Nobody expects anything to come of the expedition - it has become something of a formality at this point, an exercise in finding great heroes of the elven people to vouch for Maedhros or to explain to them the details of mental illness, in the hopes that eventually the Valar will be tired enough of the petitioning to just give in. It is unlikely to work, and feels like trying to stop the tides from turning, but it is at least doing something.

There is, of course, always the risk of annoying the Valar into doing something worse, but nobody in the room can quite imagine what worse would be.

Fingon is on his way out, the rest of them planning to spend the night, when Maglor finally speaks up. He had been unusually quiet throughout the conversation, though Elrond had simply assumed it was because he had not been present for one before - had not realised that people care that Maedhros is gone.

"Why have we not just broken into Mandos?" he asks.

"Because who would do it? I am under constant watch, so are your brothers. You and I can only meet like this because your supervisor permits it. I am not even allowed to pass Curufinwë in the street - how do you expect us to organise a jailbreak?" Fëanor replies, voice bitter and dark, hands twitching.

Fingon looks florlornly between them, "I tried. I was caught before I even got past the first hallway, and am now magically barred from approaching."

When nobody replies to that, Fingon makes his farewells and slips away into the night. Slowly, the rest of them disperse into Fëanor's eight "guest" bedrooms. Elrond is the last awake, staring long and hard into the fire. Fëanor is the second to last, forcing a promise from Elrond that he will not do anything too foolish - reminding him that he cannot bear to lose another of his descendants. For all the words sounds angry, Elrond can see the desperation and terror in his eyes. So he hugs his grandfather and promises that he is just not tired yet, that he has no plans to perform any ridiculous stunts and he will ensure nobody else acts on any, too.

What Maglor had said was a stupid, ridiculous idea. Absolutely absurd. Completely impossible. Those are the words he reassures his grandfather with, that allow him peace to stare back into the fire late into the night again. To think.

Maglor's idea was completely fanciful. Absolutely and completely not something to be attempted.

But then again, he, Elrond, is one of the Children of Luthien... But how to get in safely, how to guarantee Maedhros would not just be taken back...

The answer hits him like a ton of bricks. No point telling anyone else yet; he will only tell them if it works. The people here, anyway. But in the morning...

Yes, in the morning, he would make a visit to his old friend Mithrandir.

* * *

Two and a bit days later, whilst Fingon and Celebrian are petitioning Manwe and Varda, Elrond stands at the doors to the Halls of Nienna. Mithrandir had left him a short while ago, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat before disappearing off to do... Whatever he does with his free time. It had been surprisingly easy to convince the Maiar to help him. Even if the help was just to suggest to call on Nienna's assistance, rather than Mandos', and act as a guide to her Halls. Mithrandir had said that was all the help from him that Elrond would need.

Still, Elrond made absolutely certain to discuss the plan with all his relatives - even his blood parents - first. Just incase something went wrong. Some disapproved more than others, but he would not, and will not, be swayed from his course of action. No matter how terrifying the door is to open.

Quietly, afraid to disturb Nienna's peace too much, Elrond slips inside. Everything inside is black; he sees he is in Nienna's court - her brazier burns a single coal before a throne of black marble, the pillars of basalt are functionless; the roof shifts as the bats who make it up go about their lives. But the room is empty of anyone. Not even a maiar is within the room. Elrond can hear a gentle weeping from beyond one of the doors, so he presses into the more intimate areas of her home.

He did not come here to turn away at the last hurdle.

As he gets closer, the gentle weeping becomes a echoing, soul-turning wail. It is uncomfortable, twisting his insides, but the one way he can ensure he is going in the correct direction.

Nienna is on the uppermost floor, sat on a pillowed stool within a bay window. She would seem to be asleep, but for the unearthly wailing coming from her. Her face is turned beyond the window; Elrond can only see darkness beyond, and from his calculations he thinks it looks beyond the Walls of the World.

It takes her a few moments to turn to him, and when she does, she does not speak. Beneath the hood of her robes all he can see are pale lips, opened and screaming, and tears dripping off her alabaster chin. He feels her push against his mind, a wall of grief and anguish and mirrored sorrow; he does not resist for he needs her help.

She digs through his mind, rooting out the reason he is here. And she watches him tell everyone he had told, almost a confirmation that what he believes he is doing is also what he intends to do. When she sees the expressions of Fëanor and Fingon, she wails harder.

Nienna takes her time to consider what she has seen, leaving Elrond to stand in silence before her. He wonders if he should bow, but it is a little late now. Eventually she stands, taking a long glance out of the window before walking away. Elrond is compelled to follow.

He is lead to the Halls of Mandos, but not to him himself; instead he is taken to Vairë. As Nienna and Vairë engage in some sort of debate of concepts, Elrond takes the chance to look around; he finds Miriel staring at him. She is obvious with her more corporeal presence than the others, though there is still a deep fatigue within her. A moment later he realises that Finwë is sat on the arm of her chair, watching her work, and Indis is on the floor between her legs. There is something familiar and domestic about the scene, despite its setting and the fact Finwë is still a disembodied soul. Elrond smiles to them. Seeing his smile, Miriel offers a small one back. She whispers something to Finwë and Indis; the two of them wave a greeting before they all three return to Miriel's work.

Sooner than he expects, Nienna and Vairë finish their debate. It is strange how quickly he learnt to tune out Nienna's horrible crying, but then maybe that is because it is just a reflection of his own. Vairë turns to him, considering him for a moment before disappearing. She reappears after a few long minutes, a long silver thread in hand.

"Take this," Vairë's words offer no room for hesitation, though they seem to fit poorly in her mouth. "Tie it around you, and to something solid in this world, and you shall not be lost. I will... speak with my husband."

"Thank you, my lady," Elrond does remember to bow this time.

His mind is brushed by Vairë's amusement, and pride in her work. Her absolute certainty that it will function correctly. He is not certain that is actually reassuring; in his experience, the more certain someone is of their item's infallibility the more easily broken it is. There is further amusement when she notices this thought in his mind.

"I am infallible, Son of Earendil, Maitimo and Makalaure," she smiles at him. "At least I am within my work."

Elrond's pleasure at her acknowledging all of his fathers outweighs the continuing doubts in his mind. Later, he would wonder if this misdirection was intentional on her part. There is not really time to consider it then; Nienna takes the silver thread and ties it around his waist, both ends left long, then leads him back to her own halls. As they leave, he spots Vairë head over to Miriel, and gently stroke her hair as they talk.

When they arrive at a specific though generic room in Nienna's halls, she ties the one end of the thread to one of the great, pointless, basalt pillars. She then takes a key from around her neck, and a Fëanorian lamp from the wall. Both are offered to Elrond. Once he takes them, she gestures towards a slowly manifesting, great obsidian door set at forty five degrees to the Walls of the World.

"I should go that way?" Elrond is fairly sure he is correct, but it is dangerous not to check.

"You should not," her words echo in his mind. It is immediately obvious that she is fundamentally uncomfortable with language - even moreso than most ainur - from the way the words trip up. "None should. But to find what you seek you must."

"I should not, but you say I should anyway?"

His response is not direct; Nienna simply pours the full weight of her grief and sorrow and pity for the House of Fëanor into him. He collapses to the floor, unable to stand beneath it. It rips through his soul, burning and tearing and pulling apart his heart. And worse even than the pity and sorrow is the sheer, consuming helplessness. And an anger at the other Aratar for ignoring her. Nienna offers no comfort as he screams and weeps with it - no comfort but that she is also screaming. After a little while, she draws it back to herself.

When he regains more full control, Elrond thinks he understands; Nienna is hurting because of how the House of Fëanor are being misused, and she knows this current situation is not helping. But because she vouched for Morgoth and he committed his crimes again, she has lost her influence and meaning. She wants what Elrond wants, if only to lessen the pain she absorbs, but she is powerless to make the changes necessary. And, it is necessary for something to change. 

It takes him a few moments to process the new information - Nienna, he summarises, is not kind but she is altruistic. She is not generous or affectionate or even especially considerate, but she is fundamentally concerned with the welfare of everyone she encounters. In a way his time in Valinor has convinced him few of the Valar are. Or, at least, that few of them feel able to act upon. He is not sure which interpretation is more damning. Whether that is because the pain of others is pain for her or not is, in the end, irrelevant to the consequences. And the Valar are all about consequences.

With only a quick look back, he unlocks the door. He pushes it open, and enters. The door slams shut behind him, leaving him alone with his key and his string and his lamp in the silent dark.

* * *

It takes Elrond eternity and no time at all to find what he seeks. He is not sure where he is - in his dealings with the Valar, he has concluded that space does not really apply to them. The darkness is pressing in on him, but it also feels like it is not the only thing present. Just, that he has not the means to perceive whatever is with him. He can only hope the something is if not friendly at least non-aggressive. And this is to Mandos he has been sent, not the Everlasting Darkness.

It is disturbing how quiet it here.

He nearly does not recognise Maedhros; his fëa is tattered, torn and burnt in a way that even his scarred body never was, and his vibrant hair phases into actual flames that lick and burn and surround him still. He seems to be frozen in space and time, but also the very embodiment of movement itself. His back is to Elrond, and he stands rigid.

"Atar?" Elrond whispers, unwilling to approach and surprise him. That always used to end poorly.

"Elrond?" Maedhros turns sharply. The eyes of his fëa have burnt away, leaving gaping wounds, but still he stares. His expression is the image of despair. "Elrond why-"

"I came to find you," Elrond is as gentle as he can be with the words.

Maedhros' hand comes up to his mouth, and he breaks into a sob. It looks almost like something breaks away from him, "you should not be here! You were safe! We- We made sure you were safe! Why... Why are you dead? Please- Please-"

"I did not die; Lady Nienna helped me come to find you," Elrond very slowly reaches forward; when Maedhros shies away, he stops. 

"You... Came to find me? Have you come to finally end it? Am I finally to be unwritten? My fëa erased from the world for what I have done?" there is something disturbingly hopeful in his expression as he asks the question.

"No!" Elrond curses himself as Maedhros flinches at the sharp word. His next are more levelled. Softer. "I came to bring you home."

Maedhros seems more confused than anything by those words, and his next words confirm it, "home?"

"Yes, home. Tirion. Well, probably just outside Tirion. We miss you, love you, and want you to come home."

"I don't..." Maedhros furrows his eyebrows. Looks down and away and the way he moves implies trying to think hurts.

Ever so carefully, Elrond takes his hand from Maedhros' face, placing it between both of his. The other, the one that has always been missing, is still gone. "Everyone else has returned already; even your father. He makes wonderful cakes, but everything feels wrong without you there."

Maedhros' empty eyes point in the direction of their entwined hands, and his thumb escapes to rubs slowly over Elrond's fingers. Nobody says anything for a long time, though what looks almost like tears of blood ooze down Maedhros' face. 

Eventually, Elrond dares to speak again, his voice even softer still, "Fingon misses you."

It is only after another long pause of the silent hand stroking that Maedhros looks up. This time, he hiccups along with the bloody tears. The words are whispered like some awful secret, "I don't remember."

"You don't remember what?" Elrond's heart is breaking once again, yet still he tries to be gentle. Tries to help. The idea that Maedhros might have forgotten Fingon, or his brothers, or Elros...

"I... I think I could remember. I remembered you when I felt you," Maedhros words have become quick, but are still fragile. He continues to weep, though it reaches not his voice. "Can you... Can you tell me about them? About the everyone? About... Fingon is important to me, yes? I remember that..."

There is am anxiety in his words that Elrond would never have expected from him, but the very small, hopeful smile cannot be ignored. So Elrond sits himself down - he is not entirely sure on what he sits - and tells Maedhros what he knows of his family.

It is strange, doing it this way around. For so many years it was Maedhros telling him about his family, and now it is vice versa. Maedhros studies the words with all the intensity he once applied to his training. Elrond does not care to discuss old things, bar the briefest of references to contextualise which relative was which. It is heartbreaking to watch as his father slowly pieces together enough to work out who was who, beginning to interrupt to add little anecdotes of things they did together once upon a time. Elrond can also see the moment that Maedhros remembers watching Fingon die, finding his dead and dying relatives after various fights. It is not just Maedhros' expression that shatters, but parts of his very being. It is not Maedhros' way to cry about, well, anything. Indeed, it is another little while that he lets out a rendering, keening wail that seems to shake Elrond's very core.

There is little to nothing Elrond can do - he must remember and feel to be able to leave, to even begin to heal. Still, he holds his father's hand to his chest, and shuffles closer to lean his head on his knee. To press in, and offer what comfort he can. Elrond continues to talk, telling Maedhros of all his family is doing now that they have been reborn, attempting to reassure him that, despite all that has happened, they are alive and safe and so very slowly learning how to heal. It does involve explaining how each is in the custody of either one of the Valar - in Fëanor himself's case several - or a significantly heroic relative, but even that is kinder than what Maedhros confesses to have assumed. To have thought all of his loved ones were trapped here with him, just out of reach and for fault of his own... Or, worse, just refusing to speak to him for horror of his crime. Elrond continues to talk, hoping and praying that the confirmable presence of another person will help.

Somewhere into Elrond explaining his admittedly unusual relationship statuses, more for want of something to say than anything else, Maedhros looks at him.

"I abandoned you all, didn't I?"

Elrond can see the crossroads before him, though he is not and can not be certain which is the right path to take. On the one route, he reassures Maedhros that no, he did not abandon them, that this is the illness speaking and they never felt that way. On the other, he could tell the truth. The love in him wants to lie, wants to reassure and comfort and, dare he call it that, coddle (and could Maedhros not use at least some?), but he knows Maedhros would find out eventually. Maybe even immediately. And there was nothing that hurt Maedhros more than lies. Especially lies about feelings; those had ruined so much of his existence already...

Elrond chooses his path, and hopes there will be opportunity to make amends for it.

"Yes."

Maedhros drops to his knees, curling in on himself in a way utterly foreign to Elrond. He shifts away, as though trying to escape Elrond, sobbing apologies until his tongue seemed to crumble inside his mouth and what of his fëa looked like skin seems to crumble like ash. The bloody mess of his tears mixes with it into awful patterns.

Elrond suddenly feels very cruel, especially as he still hold Maedhros' hand hostage. All he can hope is that the brutal honesty of that word makes the rest easier to believe, "We understand why. We do not blame you for it, though that you did it is truth. You were sick - are sick - and did not receive the help you needed. And when sicknesses are left untreated, they kill people."

"I wasn't... I'm not..." Maedhros raises his face, which Elrond takes as a small victory. 

"Trust me," Elrond is not sure it is possible for Maedhros to trust him, but he can try. "I have been a healer for thousands of years now, considered the best in Middle Earth for many of those. I know what sickness is, atar, and you were ill. Are ill. It is very common in the Edain, and more common in the Eldar than anyone seems willing to admit. Being unwell is not shameful or wrong; what is is that you did not have access to the care you needed."

Maedhros finally, finally reclaims his hand. He draws it up to brush against Elrond's cheek as he attempts, and fails, to speak.

"It will be alright, I promise; come with me, and I will help. Fingon too. And grandfather and your brothers," Elrond also reaches up a hand to Maedhros cheek, lightly brushing it. Under the ashen layer, he finds new skin. He brushes away the bloody tears, or tries - really he just smears them over Maedhros' face.

"... Will the Valar not object?"

Elrond bites back his cursing, "Fingon and my wife are petitioning Manwe about it as we speak, and many of the other Valar have already expressed their indifferent to or support for you being reborn," it takes a concerted effort for Elrond to keep himself calm. 'Many' is perhaps an over approximation, but it is true that most of the Valar prefer to trust Mandos with the dead and stay out of such matters themselves.

Maedhros goes to object, but it is obvious that he still cannot find the words. 

A moment later, Elrond adds another suggestion, "And, well, if the worst comes to the worse my-father-the-star has offered to do a strip tease to distract the Valar whilst we escape."

The look that crosses Maedhros' face is priceless.

Elrond revels in it for a few moments - and, yes, his atya had genuinely offered that when Elrond had, ever so carefully, broached the plan with him - before he finishes off, "so, would you mind coming back with me? I promise that if anyone tries to punish you unreasonably, or physically, we can just convince the Noldor to run away again. This time, we even have our own ships."

Maedhros does not appear convinced, glancing around himself nervously. His voice is barely audible when he continues, "Lord Namo comes sometimes. He says that for what I did to myself I can never leave."

Elrond can see there is more in that sentence than just its words. But he is not sure how much time they have, so he ignores it for now and instead shifts to hug his father. Very hesitantly, Maedhros returns it.

"Please try for me, atar," Elrond whispers in his ear. "Are you able to at least try for me?"

There is a deep hesitation in Maedhros, one that with their contact Elrond can feel. But, eventually, he receives a nod. Ever so carefully, he shifts as to access the end of Vairë's string. With one hand, he loops it around Maedhros' waist - now tieing them both to the physical world.

In another time he would have said a prayer to Varda, or to Manwe, or maybe even Ulmo, friend to his kin, but he knows which of the Valar are watching over this affair. So he prays a quick apology to Namo for breaking in and stealing a soul (it is not entirely sincere, but he tries), then another to Vairë that the string would hold, and finally one to Nienna - a thanking for her assistance and a prayer that this all would go well. Now, with the results as firmly out of his control as it was possible for them to be, Elrond began to pull them both along the string, winding it around his wrist as they moved.

Heading back towards life and the material world was much, much harder than abandoning it. It is like pulling yourself through treacle, except that this treacle is mixed with sharp rocks and pebbles which pull at and tear apart your fea. Elrond does his best to shield Maedhros from the worst of it; the little maiar blood that still flows through his veins grants Elrond some protection. Still, it drains away his energy even if it does not leave actual cuts, and he can only hope he will be strong enough to pull them both out.

* * *

In time, they made it back to the door. From this side it was silver, intricate and engraved with deformed and screaming faces. Elrond pulls it open with what feels like the last of his strength, and the two of them fall through. 

The next thing Elrond processes seeing is Maedhros' houseless fëa pressed desperately against him, seeming almost to feed off his maiar blood to maintain something akin to a form. Elrond lets him; he would happily surrender almost anything to have Maedhros back and safe and receiving the help he needed, so what cost is a little bit more of his energy? Energy that will return with some rest and time away. It will surely only be for a short time. Either that, or he might be starting the next rebellion against the Valar.

It takes an awful lot of effort to pull himself onto his knees. As he does so, he becomes aware of Nienna's weeping. Except that, right now, she was more shrieking than weeping, an unearthly wail more intense and deeper than any other he had heard before. Looking, he sees that she is standing between himself Namo, Vairë at her side. Vairë looks almost curiously at him and Maedhros, before smiling to herself. As they watch Nienna and Námo seem to be locked in an intense mental fight, flickerings of emotion crossing each other's face. Vairë rests one hand on each of Elrond and Maedhros' shoulders, a gesture which sits uncomfortably for everyone.

Nobody says anything; Elrond's heart clenches, hoping against hope that Maedhros will not be banished again. Slowly, slowly Vairë's grip becomes almost comforting, offering solace in the situation. Even if it is confused; he feels her poke curiously at his mind, as though trying to work out why he is upset. He does his best to offer up the concepts explaining the situation to her - it seems she is satisfied, for her hand moves and begins stroking his hair instead. She also seems to be trying to comfort him by sharing sensations comforting to her - embroidery silks pulled over her fingers, the satisfaction of completing a work, the uncertain knowledge that everything will be alright in the end, that Eru loves her and will ensure a happy ending whatever comes between. It is not especially comforting to Elrond, but he appreciates the effort.

It is Namo who moves first, abandoning his corporeal form as tears begin to emerge in his eyes. Nienna makes a sharp movement of her head, causing an odd echo in her screams, before nodding to Vairë and sweeping her way out of the room. Namo remains, a great incorporeal mass of darkness that tastes of death. A few minutes of silence after Nienna leaves, and he coalesses back into an almost elf-like form.

Vairë steps forward, and gives her husband a light kiss. Something else seems to pass between them, for she sighs and shakes her head. Namo does not say anything as he steps forward. He seems to reach inside the fëa that is Maedhros, then yank his hand out again. Maedhros screams as he does so, and Elrond can only watch in a combination of fascination and horror as a new body knitts itself from the inside out, following the depth of Mandos' hand. 

The hroa which is built is not like the one that Elrond knew, but it is not the one that left Tirion so many ages ago, either. If Elrond has to explain it, then the scars which would cause physical difficulties - the missing hand, the missing teeth, the thick flesh stopping one eyelid open fully - is gone, but those scars whose main damage is cosmetic - silver lines across this face, ridges on his chest, half an ear bitten off - remain. Namo does not look happy with his work, but so far as Elrond can tell nothing important is missing. Thankfully. He does not trust Namo not to send Maedhros back, to reimprison him, to make him a hroa without a heart or similar. Still, he has seen no others who kept their scars from life.

"Thank you," Elrond is seething, but keeps his tone polite; why should he be thanking the Valar for doing his job instead of intentionally and knowingly fucking it up?

Except he cannot really stay angry, not properly. Something about the way that Namo holds himself and moves speaks to a tiredness more familiar to Elrond than he cares to admit. And then he has to wonder how the Valar work, because surely Namo's duty must cause be distressing to watch and see. To have to take in all the tortured and broken fëa of the elves and try to fix them. He did a terrible job of it, but Elrond still had to wonder just how that sort of work affected someone. Wonders if, maybe, Namo has as little idea of how to help as everyone else. Despite helping being, in theory, his job.

As Namo walks away, not even acknowledging the thanks, Elrond presents the question to Vairë. She seems to understand more of it than he expected, nodding slowly. He gets the glimpse of the idea of her speaking to Irmo and Este before she closes her mind.

"Do you require accompaniment?" her voice is clinical, and her eyes trail after Namo.

"Please; I must confess to be somewhat lost," Elrond responds. Maedhros is too busy examining his new body to pay attention to the conversation.

"I will see you to your horse," Vairë's smile reaches her eyes, but not her voice.

Maedhros struggles to walk on his newly formed legs, falling and stumbling and colliding with walls. Vairë offers him an arm of support, but he looks horrified by the suggestion. Elrond would offer, but his own strength is faltering too much. Everything is still tired and aching and impossibly painful after dragging them back to the door. His arms in paticular feel like they have been ripped to shreds, likely by a wolf, despite there being no physical injury.

Vairë leads them downstairs and out of the front door, elegant and graceful and proud even as she slows to match their pace.

Outside, Nienna is waiting with Elrond's horse, and another, tall and a sandy colour. Her wailing picks up as they approach, but does not reach the screaming of before.

"I am lending my horse. She will return when she has born you to safety. I will speak to Manwe and have Mithrandir inform you of any rulings he makes." Nienna's quiet voice echoes in Elrond's mind. From the looks of things, she also speaks something to Maedhros. "Farewell. Please visit again."

Nienna does not wait for a reply before sweeping away, grey robes picking up mud as they swish against the grass. Elrond cannot really find an emotion in her words but grief, yet grief is all of her emotions. Vairë ignores Nienna, but helps them both onto the horse. After, she passes Maedhros a robe to dress himself in. Elrond assists him with it, and notes the sigil for the House of Fëanor sew across the back. The act is done in silence.

When they look up, Nienna is hesitating - torn between staying and leaving.

"My Lady?" the words from Maedhros are horse and hesitant, but Elrond is relieved to finally hear him speak.

"My Miriel requested I give these to you," she presents Maedhros with a pair of scrolls. "You are welcome to visit her in my rooms. Tell the House of Fëanor that they all may, though do not come in groups of more than three. I have but two rooms and she tires easily."

There is both a sadness and fondness in Vairë's tone as she speaks of Miriel. Even Maedhros manages to pick up on it. He nods to her words. 

* * *

Elrond does not head for his home, or for Fingon's for that matter. Instead, he heads for a small cabin just beyond the fringes of what could be called the outskirts of Noldor territory. If Maedhros is confused by this, he does not express such. 

Without knocking, Elrond pushes open the door. Taking a quick look around, he calls out, "grandpa! I bought company!"

He did not receive a reply, but assumed that Fëanor had either heard or would eventually get hungry and have to come through to the kitchen. And getting to the kitchen involved passing through the living room. Following, that logic he leads Maedhros through to the front room. Elrond takes his usual place in the smallest chair and Maedhros, after looking at each of them for a few moments, decides to at the end of one of the sofas - closest to the fire and second closest to Fëanor's chair.

Maedhros does not appear to have noticed the ancient painting on the wall, depicting the House of Fëanor many an age ago, nor the relevance of the number of chairs.

"I... Did not think you would bring me to Turgon first."

Elrond can tell that Maedhros is attempting to keep his tone light, but can also hear the terror beneath it. Elrond is about to correct him when there is the sound of someone storming up from the basement.

Fëanor appears moments later.

Maedhros stares in shock, and Fëanor freezes in his path. Elrond has just enough time to notice his grandfather's apron and oil-caked gloves before his attention is called to Maedhros sliding off the sofa. He sort of folds onto the floor and Elrond is initially concerned he has fallen or fainted. But, no, the positioning is too precise to that; Maedhros is bowing as low onto the floor as it is possible to achieve.

"Neylo?"  Fëanor whispers the word, then approaches, cautiously, as though he is expecting some trick. He comes to kneel at Maedhros' side. "Oh, Neylo..."

Elrond can see that Maedhros is white and frozen with terror, and wonders just what he is expecting is about to happen. Certainly, he is not expecting Fëanor to take off his filthy gloves and rest his hands, folded, on Maedhros' head.

"Neylo, my beloved son," there is a heartbreaking smile with the words. "You have returned to me." 

"I am sorry," Maedhros whispers. "I am so sorry."

"Why are you sorry, Neylo?"

"I... I failed you. I abandoned Kano. I let my brothers die.I... I didn't... I couldn't- I couldn't win, atar. I couldn't stay, couldn't fight, couldn't stay. I- I-," Maedhros is sobbing by the time he finishes. 

"Shhhh," Fëanor whispers, one hand shifting to the join of Maedhros' neck and back. He is crying silent tears, face both utterly broken and thankful. "It does not matter; I am still so very happy to see you. Everything is forgiven; I love you. More than anything."

"But I-"

Fëanor pulls Maedhros into his lap, silencing him with the surprise movement. He does not hesitate at all to wrap Maedhros tightly and carefully into a hug, rocking them both as they cry, "I love you. More than silmarils. More than my parents. No matter what you do or have done, I will never stop loving you. My Nelyafinwë. My Maitimo. My Russandol. My Neylo, my Maedhros. Whatever you want to call yourself, I do not mind. I love you. I love you so much."

Maedhros sobs harder at the words, curling into his father's embrace. Elrond watches the desperate embrace for a few more moments, Fëanor continuing to murmer his love into Maedhros' damaged ear, before slipping through to the kitchen.

He fills the kettle with water, and takes three mugs, and a teapot, from the cupboard. With practiced ease he prepares the pot of tea, using a more traditional method than Fëanor's contraptions. Taking a little longer, offering his father and grandfather a little privacy. When it is done he returns to the front room. Maedhros and Fëanor are now sat together on one of the sofas, Fëanor curled protectively around his son. His son, who is asking him quiet questions about his family. Elrond puts the tray he is carrying down, and begins to pour the tea.

"Stop that and come over here," Fëanor snaps the words, but his face is not angry.

Making sure it is stable, Elrond puts the teapot down and moves over to the sofa. Almost immediately both of Maedhros' arms, and one of Fëanor's, pull him down to join them on the sofa. Just as Fëanor's arms are wrapped around Maedhros, Maedhros wraps his arms around Elrond. Elrond, for his part, does his best to hug both of them. They can worry about everything else later - for now the three generations simply take comfort from each other's presence.

By the time they remember the tea, it is stone cold.


	2. In Which We Forge Our Own Hapiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three scenes tieing off a few of the loose ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: the start of the first section has some pretty extensive descriptions of depression thought. Skip to 'He feels someone sit on the sofa next to him' to avoid the worst of it, skip from 'He would cry if he ever again' to 'When a knock sounds from the door' to avoid suicidal thinking specifically.
> 
> PoV is denoted by the first name of each section. Feanor thinks in Quenya names because he's old and like that.
> 
> There was originally a scene with Mahtan and Nerdanel in the middle, but I found I could not reread it to edit without damaging myself. After a week of this I decided that this was likely to continue for a very long time, so it was cut for the sake of ever being able to finish this.
> 
> Oh! And accent use is horrifically inconsistent, basically dependant on whether I needed to copy-paste the name or not. My keyboard is not friends with accents and I could not remember all the names I used to control-replace everything.

 

Fingon pushes open his front door, kicks over a stack of invitations to visit relatives, and faceplants into the sofa. Logically, he had known that Manwe would reject the petition, but it did not make it any easier to suffer through. They had scattered back to their own houses afterwards, nobody really wanting company. There is something to be said for company, of course, but without Maedhros? Does he not also deserve company? There will always be a gaping wound in any social gathering, so long as he is not there. It was easier to deal with no contact at all.

Turgon keeps trying to speak with him, but with Turgon comes Elenwë. And, as lovely an elf as she is, he cannot bear to see them together. Reunited, when he is not. And more than that he is not reunited, he could stand to wait a few centuries longer, but that his love is sundered from him forever. How can he bare witness to their happiness and union when he will forever be alone? It is painful in more ways than he can count.

His father sometimes comes and brings him one project or another to oversee. He can tell he is trying to distract him; some days the attempt is appreciated and he can throw himself into the work, letting it consume him for a while, others it makes him angry - why should he care about new housing districts being built in Tirion when he lived here, in this house he had built for two, and would only ever be inhabited by one. He does not often see mother; it is awkward and tense and she tries to hug him and provide sympathy, but for all the wrong things. She offers it for his death and the traumas of Beleriand, not the traumas of Valinor.

They know his fea is sick, but they cannot quite comprehend sundering forever. For why would there be such trauma in paradise?

There is only a handful of people who know, and none of them are easy to talk to; for better or more likely worse, Maedhros is the only thing he has in common with any of them.

Maedhros, who is exiled and gone and doomed forever.

He would cry if he ever again had the energy. He would take a knife to his throat and return to Mandos just so they could be together, if he had the energy to make it as far as the kitchen. He does not. He has not since he was reborn. Instead he just lays on the sofa, In another week or so he will begin preparing another petition; at this point, the endless struggle of trying to get his Maedhros back is the only thing holding him together. The only reason he eats or drinks and keeps dragging himself through life is because if he fades or dies then there is not even an ounce of hope for Maedhros.

When a knock sounds from the door, he ignores it. He ignores the second and third as well - he does not want to be disturbed, or to deal with people. If he puts the cushions on his head, it is not even loud enough to be painful.

What he appreciates even less is the sound of someone letting them self into his house. There are a few people he gave keys to in the past; on better days when he knows he sometimes need someone to come in and open the curtains and clean out the fridge and force him to sit down and eat. When he hears Elrond announce himself, he has to suppress a groan; he could probably deal with father dragging him to his feet and outside, or mother tidying up around him. But Elrond, with his infinite empathy? Who, though he might not know what it is to lose his one and only, knows what it is to lose dearly beloved people? And still wanted to do nothing more than help? Fingon does not want to be understood or helped, he wants Maedhros in his arms. Or, failing that, to be allowed to wallow on his own.

He feels someone sit on the sofa next to him, and tangle their hand in his hair. That gets his attention a little more; the tangling is familiar, but Elrond always - always - asks before he touches. Its one of the rules they have established. The pleading kiss on the small of his neck, in that one especially sensitive spot that only Maedhros should know about, makes him confused enough to look. He slowly maneuvers himself into a seated position, blinking haziness from his eyes as he tries to work out who it is.

Initially he thinks Nerdanel, but then decides that is impossible - it has not been long enough for her to go home and back. Then his eyes catch sight of the groves on the face, and the chewed ear. Such very, very familiar scars that are both burnt into his mind and almost forgotten.

"Russandol?" he whispers the name as though it is sacred.

He earns a very hesitant, small smile. Maedhros' eyes are terrified, and mirror a sickness more familiar than Fingon cares to admit. He glances across to find Elrond sat on the coffee table, using some paperwork as a cushion. He nods and smiles. When Fingon turns back, he sees that Maedhros is silently crying. Fingon tenderly thumbs the tears.

A moment later, Maedhros has flung himself at Fingon, knocking them both into a sprawl across the sofa, desperately kissing him. Fingon can do nothing but return it, savouring the taste of his one and only. It is short, but it speaks of years of separation and hopelessness and grief and sheer relief.

And then Maedhros is sobbing into Fingon's chest, and Fingon is crying back, and choking out apologies. Fingon wraps his arms around Maedhros as tightly as he can, burrows his fingers tightly into short, red hair and covers the top of Maedhros' head in layers and layers of gentle kisses. He dare not let go; he is very certain this is real, for the Maedhros of his dreams has either none or all of his scars, but fears that if he loosens his grip even a micrometer the Valar will snatch Maedhros away from him again.

He is very certain he would not survive regaining Maedhros, only to lose him again. One way, or the other.

There is no chance of Maedhros calming down anytime soon; Fingon kisses away each and every apology, granting his forgiveness. Fingon can do nothing else.

In the end, Maedhros falls asleep, still on Fingon's chest. It is not long after that that Fingon stops crying. He continues to hold Maedhros close, but looks around for Elrond. He finds him sorting the paperwork he had earlier been sorting, ears red in embarrassment.

"They... They will not take him back?" Fingon does not want to hear the answer, but at the same time needs to know.

Elrond shakes his head, "Namo knows, and let us leave. Ladies Nienna and Vaire are sorting out the details."

"You are certain?"

"If they try anything, I will be teaching the Valar a new definition of the word 'rebellion'," the hiss in Elrond's words is almost reassuring. People would do well to remember just what Elrond has seen and lived through, despite his many quirks and soft manner, Fingon thinks.

Slowly, he nods and tries to settle himself more comfortably. It has been a while since he has cared about that. "Do you know who will be keeping him?"

"Grandpa Turgon," Fingon supposes that that could be worse. He will have to talk to Turgon, but at least with Maedhros back it will be infinitely less awkward. "Though I am not sure if he has been told yet. They... One second," Elrond fishes out a sheet of paper and hands it to Fingon. "That is the official paperwork; Nienna managed to argue that your dedication to both Maedhros and fighting your case from within the Valinorian legal system, rather than going around it, should allow the two of you some privacy. Its... Parole? Is that a concept you have? Turgon will have to check up on you from time to time and sanction certain activities, but Maedhros will not have to be under constant supervision."

That... Is more generous than Fingon could hope for. It is more similar to the Ambarussa's terms of supervision, despite the fact Maedhros had committed what the Valar called a graver crime than any other. But then, maybe they have been convinced that the self destruction was a mark of his guilt and repentance? That there was no judgement they could offer harsher than Maedhros' own. 

"You do not need to fight my battles for me, nephew," it almost hurts that Elrond succeeded where Fingon failed. He has to remind himself not to be angry; it is likely the small amount of maiar blood still in Elrond's veins that made it possible, rather than any fault of Fingon's own causing him to fail. 

"I like to think I am at least your step-foster-son," Elrond's tone is light, and Fingon can only give a small smile at the comment. Elrond and his insistence on being as closely related as possible to all of Valinor, despite his actual relation to everyone anyway. "And, I may not have to fight yours, but someone needs to fight Maedhros'. We will each have more time for our own if we share those battles."

"You got him back; I have quite some catching up to do on the fighting his battles front," Fingon pauses a moment, then bursts into a fit of gleeful giggling as the reality hit him. "You did it, you got him back!"

Elrond grins in a reply, but then his face becomes serious again, "I need to leave soon, else I will be caught by the night. If you need anything - anything at all - you know where to get hold of me. I will bring Maglor to visit in a couple of weeks? Once everything has settled down."

"You can let yourself out?" Fingon asks.

Elrond nods, "Say goodbye to Maedhros for me, when he wakes up. And make sure he understands I'm just giving you two some space, not that I hate him?"

There's a strange uncertainty that Fingon can see in Elrond's eyes. Fingon agrees to the request and, as Elrond makes his leave, settles both himself and Maedhros more comfortably into the sofa.

* * *

Maglor thinks Elrond is being over-cautious, or maybe getting his revenge for Maglor's own overprotective tendencies when the children were young. He has been dressed in two coats and three scarves, a thick hat and a cloak. He knows he is still unwell, even after all this time, but the level of protection from what is a rather mild winter is ridiculous.

"Where are we going again?" he tries to keep his voice level, and ignore the laughing Gil-Galad off to one side as Elrond forces his scarred hands into a pair of mittens.

"Tirion."

"Visiting Fingon and Maedhros?" Maglor is still not quite sure that Maedhros was truly back, but then he had not believed his father would be either.

"Exactly!" Elrond beamed.

Maglor does not know whether to feel patronised by the visible pleasure on Elrond's face that Maglor has managed to remember something. In the end he decides that it is pointless to feel so; Elrond is only so pleased because, when they were first reunited, Maglor would not have been able to remember. Though this is extreme... Possibly Elrond is projecting his concern for Maedhros, whom had only left the Halls two months ago, onto Maglor instead. That would connect. It is an incredibly Elrond thing to do. An incredibly Maedhros one, too.

"Elrond, are you quite finished harassing your father? We really need to be leaving if we wish to make lunch," Gil-Galad's tone is light, though he shares a sympathetic glance at Maglor - Maglor can only wonder just how protective Elrond was of him when they first reunited, a lover he watched die before his very eyes.

Elrond has the dignity to look sheepish and apologise to Maglor for his over-attention. Maglor is quite happy to accept.

It is not a long ride to Fingon's home, just a short way from the palace in Tirion, but it is long enough that Gil-Galad manages to entrap both of them in conversation. It is very strange, and often uncomfortable, to be required to report daily to his foster-son's lover, but they made do. That he is Celebrimbor's husband makes the situation even more awkward, given he and his nephew did not part on good terms. Still, he has been made to feel nothing but welcome into their lives and household - even Celebrimbor was surprisingly delighted to see him. It is nothing he deserves, but he is grateful for it.

Part way through the journey it begins to snow. Maglor is now almost glad for the warm clothing - would be if there was slightly less of it and the scarves allowed him to properly breathe. Especially after they leave the horses at one of the city's stables.

When they reach Fingon's house, Gil-Galad bids them farewell, then continues on towards the palace; he is taking the opportunity to make a social visit to his family. As Elrond goes to knock on the door, Maglor notes that the garden is in a much better state than he has ever seen it - that, more than anything, proves to him that Maedhros must be around; Fingon hates gardening with a passion almost matching Maedhros' love of it. 

Fingon seems genuinely pleased to see them, if still exhausted. The smile is far smaller than the one he wore before his death, but then Fingon has not smiled in all the time Maglor has spent in Valinor. It seems that he took Maedhros' absence harder than anyone.

"Morning, Kano," Fingon's tone is almost cheerful as he addressed Maglor.

"Greetings, Kano!" Maglor returns with a small bow. If that is how Fingon choses to address him, he is more than willing to join in the game.

It only takes a moment before they are giggling. Maedhros obviously hears them, for he shouts through "what are you two up to?" followed by a pause, then an almost excited sounded, "Maglor!"

Fingon brings the two of them through to the living room, cleared of paperwork and fully swept. Well, nearly cleared of paperwork; Maedhros is sat on the sofa, examining some. Maglor is struck by how well he looks. To say he looks well is technically incorrect - he is scared and his posture is slightly tense, and his face is exhausted and pale, and his eyes are still haunted. But that same posture is prouder than Maglor had seen it in many an age, and he smiles in a way he has not since Fingon's death. His movements are not easy, but neither are they pained, and it is clear he has been eating properly.

His smile softens slightly when he sees Maglor, and he wonders just what he must look like.

"Good morning, atar!" Elrond gives Maedhros a hug. Maglor cannot make out the words, but a quick exchange passes between them. For all he looks so much better, Maedhros clings tightly.

"Fingon, could I borrow your expertise for a few moments?" Elrond extracts himself from the hug as he speaks.

"Of course," Fingon smiles to both Maglor and Maedhros, before disappearing upstairs with Elrond. 

Maglor severely doubts that Elrond is actually consulting him about anything; more likely, they are just giving him and Maedhros space. Elrond tends to be over-thinking about that.

They watch each other, saying nothing for a short while. What, really, is there that could be said? Words can not properly expresses what is going through Maglor's mind, and he feels that expressing it through song would not quite be appreciated. Not yet, anyway.Maedhros is the one to break the deadlock, opening up his arms in offering.

Maglor takes it, and they embrace.

"Elrond did not say what you have been up to...?" Maedhros attempts to start a conversation.

Maglor tenses, and he knows that Maedhros can tell from the way his clinging arms move to cover as much of him as possible, and Maedhros pressed his chin to Maglor's head. Maybe not the specifics, but that it was nothing healthy, safe or good.

"I.. It is alright. I am here now, Kano. I am so, so sorry I left you," Maedhros' voice breaks, and Maglor has to cling harder too.

He finds himself crying, and tuts to himself; Maedhros is the one newly returned from the dead, not him. Still, he cannot help but remember the aching, consuming loneliness and self-hatred, his failures to Maedhros and to everyone else. 

"I am sorry I did not try and stop you," he replies.

"You could not have done anything," Maedhros promises.

"There is nothing you could have done, either," Maglor promises back.

They remain embraced for some time, until Maglor begins squirming; he can only deal with so much contact. Maedhros lets him go, and they settle cross-legged at opposite ends of the sofa, facing one another. The silence is beginning to get awkward, and they both open their mouths to speak at the same time. Maedhros gestures for him to be the one to speak.

"So, when can I expect the wedding?"

Maedhros' laughter can almost certainly be heard at the other end of the street. Maglor thinks that, maybe, that is what he has missed the most.

* * *

Feanaro sits on a blanket beneath a tree, frowning as he thinks hard. For some absurd reason, Elrond has declared a family picnic in Lorien. Feanor has absolutely no desire to be here, especially as he can tell that that doe is Este watching him closely and invading anything like privacy he may have considered himself to have, but also cannot say not to Elrond. Not after he has done so much for him and his family, and not when he is the one person who refused to give up on him. Who dragged the rest of the family back into his life. Elrond and his family are already there, his twins having started some sort of game with Ereinion. Makalaure has skillfully avoided it, sitting under another tree and singing instead. Findaráto and Amarië have bought Carnistir and the Ambarussa to join in the picnic, though have moved off to one side as to give them some privacy. Telpe and Carnistir are discussing something with Turukáno as the game runs around them, Maitimo occasionally throwing in comments as he makes his own idle conversation with Celebrian; Findekano has abandoned him to also join in the tag.

It has taken them a long time to get here, but it is wonderful to see Maitimo looking so well - Makalaure and Findekano as well. With how fragile he was for the first few years, Feanaro had sometimes doubted that Elrond dragging Maitimo back to life was a kindness. But then he looks at his son now, and how much good these few years have done him with his family and lover, and thinks of the endless doom that Mandos would have been, and decides that it truly was.

Only Elrond does not seen to be at ease, and that is in turn why Feanaro is thinking; it is blatantly obvious that his sort-of grandson is plotting something, and from the looks of things he is missing a piece. He is about to confront him about it, when he is interrupted by a small tug on his sleeve.

Two large, bright eyes surrounded by a chaos of golden hair stare up at him - Mirel, Findaráto and Amarië's daughter. He had almost forgotten about her.

"Hello, Mirel," he stares back at her with equal intensity.

"Are you Feanaro?" she asks.

"Yes," he is not sure he wants to know where this conversation is going; he does not see his grand-niece often. Not since she was officially named, if he remembers correctly. "Do you need something?"

"You made the s-s-," it is not that she hesitates, even with his expression, but that she seems unable to form the word. "Shill-ma-mills?"

"Silmarils. Yes, I did," he dearly hopes he is not about to be interrogated about this by a child too young for schooling.

She copies his thinking face for a moment, before brightening up again, "they were very shiny, yes?"

"Yes, they were," children. Who understood their thinking?

At which point she makes a face that he can only describe as intentionally innocent, "will you make me some shinies?"

Feanaro lets out a relieved laugh, drawing Amarie's attention, "I am sure that can be arranged, little one. What sort of shiny would you like?"

She doesn't seem to have thought so far ahead. She pauses for a long moment, before beaming and pointing at his bracelet, "arm shiny!"

"I think that can be done. Now, what is your favourite colour? We must make sure it is the perfect shiny for a little princess, after all," he could not really bear to say no.

"Purple!"

The conversation continues in a similar vein, Feanaro going so far as to pull out a scrap of paper and pencil and start doodling designs for her perusal.  

He is so engrossed with his work that he fails to almost notice three new members of the Valar arriving. Almost, because he is convinced it is not actually possible to miss such a shift in reality. Especially when one of those Valar is Aule, whose voice immediately fills the entire garden as he talks with Orome and... Vaire?

Now, that combination catches his attention.

His presence also seems to catch Aule's. The Valar smiles almost sadly at him, and Orome marches over.

"Fuck this up, and I will be personally returning you to Mandos," as he leans down Orome's hair flickers from silver to pitch black. "So do not fuck it up. We will be very upset if you do. We want this to go well."

"Orome," Vaire's tone is absolutely dead, though her face depicts confusion. "We had already made our arrangements, yes?" She then turns to Feanaro and gives him a wide-eyed and disturbing smile. "I shall be joining you for this delightful... Picnic? Picnic is the correct word, yes?"

"Este, you can leave now. We will take it from here," Aule's voice is kinder than his kin's, though he ignores Vaire's question.

The deer shifts into the elven form of the Lady of Healing. Her smile is actually pleasant as she ignores Feanaro, and he thinks that might be worse, "I need to speak with Orome."

Without waiting for a response, she drags Orome off to just beyond the trees. Both of them can still be felt, but Feanaro thinks he might be able to appreciate the gesture. Maybe. Everyone gathered is staring except for Elrond. Now Feanaro is incredibly suspicious - if Vaire was not there, he would have more of an idea what was going on, but still... Elrond's face depicts a question of it as he looks at Vaire. After a few moments of everyone staring at each other, she smiles another toothy, disturbing smile, and nods her head. Elrond looks incredibly pleased with himself. 

Feanaro is about to ask him why, when he is cut off from the train of thought again. He suppresses a moment of irritation that comes with it - being angry before the Valar will not work in his favour. And it is Aule, who had once been so kind to his family, who speaks.

"Curufinwe Feanaro," Aule's voice booms, and only little Mirel fails to flinch. "Can I trust you?"

Feanaro wants to reply with yes, but considers the question a moment. If... He thinks he knows what is going on, but he cannot name it - else surely the disappointment would crush him. But if so, maybe he should be honest. "Trust me with what, sir? The answer is probably no, though. I have found very few able to trust me."

Aule does not reply to him directly, instead striding over and clamping a large hand on his shoulder. Feanaro expects the sensation of having his mind prodded, but it never comes.

"I shall be close and I shall be watching, little firefly."

With that Aule is gone. Feanaro barely has time to recover from the pet-name, not used since he had started creating swords, before he is shaken again. Three elven figures are wandering down the path towards their gathering, talking among themselves.

Tyelkormo, well, Feanaro sees him from time to time. It is not so inconceivable that Elrond had managed to convince the Valar to allow him to join in a picnic. It would explain the level of Valar presence.

The second figure, Miriel... Since Maitimo's return and the letters she sent, Feanaro has visited her. His mother is still weak and tired despite returning to life, and even now she is using a walking frame to assist her. Her face is strained and tense, but she does laugh as she talks to her companions. He had not expected to ever see her outside of Vaire's Hall, but it is not exactly a surprise to see the effort made.

The third... Feanaro does something he never thought he would - he freezes. Mind, body and soul. By the time he regains some sort of control over himself, everyone is staring. On the path stands Curufinwe, also frozen. Tyelkormo slaps his brother on the back, causing him to stumble back into motion, before calling a greeting to his other brothers and making his way to the bag of sandwiches- simply a wave for his father. Both Curufinwes hesitantly look to Vaire. 

The smile she gives them is as sad as it is disturbing, but smile she does and nod her head.

That is all the confirmation Curufinwe seems to need. In what seems like less than a second, he has thrown himself around the still shocked Feanaro. Father and son cling to one another for maybe seconds or maybe hours, saying nothing and doing nothing but affirming the other is truly real.

How... Feanaro can not remember how long it has been since he held his Curufinwe - no, he knows exactly. He has not held him since the last peak of Laurelin's light before the First Kinslaying. Thousands of years ago, even by the standards of Valinor. 

Eventually, they are interrupted by Vaire. She is hovering closely to Miriel, now carefully seated on a blanket near Matimo, holding what appears to be a kettle. Feanaro thinks she almost looks thrilled. 

"I have prepared tea! Miriel informed me that it would be appropriate to offer it to you."

"I... See," Feanaro does not release Curufinwe, but they move so they are standing beside one another, with one arm each over the other's shoulder.

That is obviously not the response Vaire expected. She looks at Miriel for a moment, and something passes between them, before she looks up, confident once more. "I am told it is good to discuss emotional things over tea. Would you like some? Aule made me some very lovely teacups for just this occasion!"

"... Please?" Feanaro is not sure he can refuse the offer. Beside him, Curufinwe hesitantly nods.

"Wonderful!" somehow she manages to clap without releasing the pot. "Oh! And you are Curufinwe, yes? Aule has not decided he did not like this plan afterall?"

"I am, my lady," Feanaro is exceptionally proud that Curufinwe manages not to sneer.

Vaire smiles wider, "I am Vaire. I have now met all of Miriel's kin! I hope my tea is satisfactory; I have not had reason to prepare it before."

Soon enough, everyone is gathered around Vaire's teapot, which appears to not actually run out of tea, nor allow the tea to go cold (when Feanaro finally asks her about it, she seems very confused - 'it is a teapot' she says 'of course it contains tea. That is its function'), talking idly. Feanaro is well aware of the fact he is conversing with Tyelkormo and Curufinwe as though they are walking on ice, but they are speaking in the same way. And the three of them are speaking. Speaking! 

It is just becoming more comfortable when Aule and Orome reappear. Curufinwe sighs, immediately picking himself up from the blankets and returning to Aule's side. Tyelkormo takes actually being asked to return to Orome's. Feanaro can see him wanting to argue about it, but censoring himself for the sake of the afternoon.

Something passes between the three Valar, ending with Orome and Aule nodding.

Vaire stands, dusting her still pristine skirts. It is an oddly elven gesture, sitting strangely on her, "then it is decreed. On the third day of each month, all members of the House of Feanor, and their guardians, have a standing invitation to join myself and Lady Miriel in this clearing at the peak of the sun, for recreational activities and food. The invitation may be refused, and if so is not retracted. Neither is it retracted when one agrees to come. The invitation stands until it no longer need to exist for them all to meet one another. Thus I have spoken, and thus it shall be."

There is a distinct shift in the song, that Feanaro can feel and recognise; the universe reacts to the words as though they are an oath. He is still considering the implications by the time he returns to his home.

Elrond and his household are staying the night, their home being the furthest from Lorien. Once again, Elrond and Feanaro are the last people awake.

"That was your fault, was it not," Feanaro realises a moment too late that his tone is accusatory.

"It was," he sees Elrond bristle with the implication.

Feanaro worries his lip for a few moments. "Thank you. It... Means a lot. That you would have done this."

"I know," Elrond's smile is pained. "I can stop-" 

He cuts himself off, face hidden. Feanaro thinks he knows the problem.

"You are always welcome here, you know."

From his reaction, it appears that Elrond did not know that. Feanaro smiles softly to him; he has received his family back. All of them are alive and safe, bar his father. But even to his father he can speak, and it is by his father's choice that he does not live. That is not so for Elrond, and it is impossible that it ever will be. The thing that brought them together no longer exists; Elrond must assume that now he has retrieved Feanaro's family, he is no longer welcome.

"I..." Feanaro's mouth twists as he tries to get the words right. "You are still my grandson. There will always be room in my home and family for you. No matter what."

Finding himself with armfuls of sobbing half-elf was not how he expected those awkward words to go, and yet that is how he ends up. He sits himself down, and holds his grandson as he cries his relief onto Feanaro's robes.

He is used to crying children - even crying adults, now. Feanaro settles himself comfortably, tries to make sure Elrond is comfortable to, and settles himself in for a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Anyone who can work out where Meril's name comes from gets a virtual cookie.

**Author's Note:**

> The main story is finished here, but there is an epilogue still half written I intend to post when I get around to it.


End file.
